


The match is on

by marysutherland



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Maurice (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cricket, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade, Sherlock and John investigate dodgy goings on at a country house cricket match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 'Maurice' and 'Murder Must Advertise', from both of which parts of this story have been blatantly nicked.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [kalypso_v](http://kalypso-v.livejournal.com/) for sorting out my spelling, scoring, and cricketing metaphors.

Lestrade had had a lot of strange text messages from Sherlock over the years. This only counted as the strangest of July.

 _You’re good at cricket, aren’t you? Have you still got your kit? SH_

Surely he’d have heard if someone had recently been battered to death with a stump, or whatever it was Sherlock was planning to reconstruct? He texted back:

 _Haven’t played for twenty years. Not sure where my stuff is. Suggest you buy whatever you need. GL_

The response was immediate:

 _I need a cricketer, and I gather they now cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. You played for Somerset, didn’t you? SH_

 _A couple of seasons for the Second XI. Top score 74, average 29.32. GL_. It was ridiculous that he could still remember that without looking it up.

 _And your bowling average? SH._

What was that tosser up to now, Lestrade wondered. Still, if he didn’t tell Sherlock, he’d doubtless hack into Cricinfo or find out _somehow_.

 _Occasional off-spinner only. Best bowling was 2-78. GL_

 _Should have known you weren’t the type to bowl a maiden over. SH_

That was all he bloody well needed, Lestrade decided. Cricketing innuendo.

 _Sod off and text Henry Blofeld. GL_

 _Can’t do that. I need you to help me catch a thief. Meet us at Imber Court first thing Friday morning. SH_

***

"They still play country house cricket?" Lestrade demanded, as they headed over to the nets. "I thought that went out with Gentlemen v Players."

"Hugh’s family have been running the Durham Invitation XI for nearly a century," Sherlock said. "Their home ground is at his house, Pendersleigh Park down in Wiltshire."

"Long way from Durham," John commented.

"The family’s surname is Durham. Hugh’s wife is one of my mother’s goddaughters, so I know the family slightly. Hugh’s worried one of his regular players is a thief. There have been several incidents when the team’s been playing away, houses where they’ve been staying getting burgled very soon afterwards."

"Has he talked to the police?" Lestrade asked.

"No. He suspects one of his team is passing on inside information, but he’s terrified he might be wrong, doesn’t want any scandal. So he’s asked me to help him set a trap."

"What’s the plan?"

"Hugh’s family has some very valuable personal letters and manuscripts, from some friend of the family called Hall. The man was a writer, and the material could apparently fetch a considerable sum in the US. It's normally kept in a bank vault, but Hugh and I agreed that it’ll be put on display at the house for a few weeks, and that might inspire an attempt. Salcombe Hardy’s willing to write a publicity piece in the _Morning Herald_ to attract some more attention."

"Where do you come in?"

"John and I will be playing in the team: Hugh often has problems making up the numbers. So I need you to turn us into sufficiently passable cricketers to survive the match. Neither of us has played since school, and personally I have deleted all memory of my experiences then."

They were both fit, and they had reasonable co-ordination, Lestrade thought. It would be difficult, but not absolutely impossible to get them up to vaguely plausible club standard in a month or two. Maybe even less if they were really prepared to work at it.

"OK," he said. "When’s the match?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," said Sherlock. "We’re expected over at Hugh’s this evening."

Oh shit, thought Lestrade.

***

Imber Court was where the Met cricket team played, but Lestrade had always resisted their approaches. Said he’d hung up his bat, but not why. Not explained how much he’d ended up hating cricket by the time he was 22 and realised he wasn’t going to make it as a professional. He’d had nightmares for several years even after he’d stopped playing, dream after dream in which the ball came infinitely slowly towards him, and yet he still could not prevent it hitting his stumps.

He was probably going to have nightmares again, after trying to get this pair of no-hopers looking like they deserved to be in any team.

"John, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he announced, as John attempted yet another swipe at an unsuitable ball and got bowled. Right now, Lestrade was wondering if he could send the bowling machine along to join the bloody Durham All-Stars.

"I'm sorry, I'm not much good at batting."

"Did anyone ever teach you how to play?"

"Not really. Just sort of picked it up, playing with my friends and pretending to be Ian Botham," said John, wistfully. "I must have been ten when I saw him win the Ashes. He made cricket look like fun. Hey, he played for Somerset, didn’t he? Did you ever play with him?"

"No," Lestrade said, "but I once faced Big Bird in net practice. Joel Garner," he explained to a bemused Sherlock. "Six foot eight Barbadian and he could bowl over eighty miles an hour. I’ve faced gunmen who’ve scared me less than him. And he had this devastating yorker –"

"What is it about the ability to throw a ball at some bits of wood that enthrals people so much?" Sherlock remarked. "I still don’t understand it."

"I noticed," Lestrade said wearily. John was a poor enough prospect for a team, with a batting technique that didn’t extend beyond the slog, but at least he was enthusiastic, and it turned out he could catch. Sherlock, on the other hand, might look fantastic in his whites, but his playing...

"You’re a bloody ferret, you know," he announced. "As in, you should go in to bat after the rabbits. They did play cricket at your school, didn’t they? There wasn’t a special Harrow version of the game that just involved posturing with a bat in your hand making sarcastic comments? Because you could captain England for that."

"I’d forgotten just how tedious the whole game is," said Sherlock. "Hour after hour of waiting around, in the vague hope that something interesting might happen. Where interesting is defined as something briefly hitting something else. My preferred position was long on, with a cigarette and a decent novel. Or, of course," he added, with a sharp glance at Lestrade, "in the long grass behind the pavilion."

Lestrade found himself suddenly transported back to being 17 and a club cricketer. Long summer evenings, full of earnest, naive men down from university buying him pints and telling him how _promising_ he was. It had been fun playing cricket then, a lot better than working at the mushroom farm. Well, he might be getting a bit too old for cricket, but he understood now about some other games...

"What are you daydreaming about, Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't going to work, so we need to move on to Plan B. You come down to Pendersleigh with me."

"What?" he and John both demanded.

"With us, I meant."

***

There was a catch, of course. He should have guessed that.

"I'm coming down there as your sodding chauffeur?" he demanded.

"Well you'd hardly pass as my valet," Sherlock said, "and turning up with a DI in tow might give even the dimmest of criminals pause for thought. Or would you rather I claimed you were something in the City? That's my cover story."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you can pass as a complete banker," Lestrade retorted easily. "But why the fuck should I do it? I've got enough work on my plate without sticking my nose into someone else's manor."

"Because we can't do this without you," said Sherlock. "And, because if Hugh's right, you get to arrest a public schoolboy in front of his equally posh friends. What could be more satisfying?"

"Or have you got something better to do this weekend, Greg?" John asked kindly.

Bloody hell, he thought, attacked from both ends. But it wasn't as if he had a lot on – anything on – this weekend.

"OK," he said. "I'll be your wheels. I can get an unmarked car from the Met."

"No need," Sherlock replied. "Mycroft’s lending us the car. You'll answer to the name of Rose."

"Rose?" demanded John

"He was a Somerset cricketer," said Sherlock.

"County captain about my time," said Lestrade. "Got us our first trophies ever." He carefully didn’t say: _Quite fancied him_. If he'd been good enough to make it as a cricketer, that side of things wouldn’t have been much fun. 2011 and only one cricketer had come out.

"Well, get going, Rose," said Sherlock. "You’ve got to find your gear and make sure your whites are clean. And for God’s sake, make sure that you’re wearing a tie this evening, or you’ll let the whole side down."

He’d just signed up for a mission where Sherlock got to boss him around in public and he had to smile and take it. He must be nuts. Still, he could survive a weekend in the country, couldn’t he?

***

They put Lestrade in his place immediately at Pendersleigh Park. Literally in his place: he was sleeping in the stable block. Probably be more comfortable than the main house, which looked the kind of pile where they hadn't yet discovered central heating, and the roof leaked. But it still stung. Reminded him that nothing really changed in England; whatever happened, it was always the same kind of chaps in charge.

His room was small and stuffy; there was no point in even trying to get to sleep till it had cooled down. He'd go for a walk first, check out the lie of the land. He hadn't thought to bring a torch – it was bizarre being somewhere without street lights – but there was moonlight, he'd be able to see where he was going.

***

He didn't quite fall into the lake – what the fuck did anyone need a lake for? – but Lestrade did trip over every molehill and rabbit hole in Wiltshire. He finally managed to find the path back to the house, and headed for that. The moonlight was still doing its trick of making everything look exotic and vaguely sinister, but as Lestrade came nearer one wing of the house he suddenly realised something. Unless the Durhams had a very strange taste in statues, there was somebody standing on the roof.

He hurried towards the house. The bloke wasn't on the main roof, but a flat bit, over some kind of bay window. Easy to climb up there, break in via one of the bedroom windows...oh. As he strained his eyes he realised two things. Whoever was on the roof was just standing there, and the intermittent gleams of the moonlight revealed that he was in a dressing-gown. Unless they had very peculiar burglars in the West Country, it wasn't a crook after all. Besides, once he was up close he recognized that fucking arse. He'd fucked it quite a bit, after all.

Sherlock was standing up there like some bloody moonlit prince and he was down on the ground gawping at him. Story of Lestrade's life really. Well, it didn't have to be like that. He could invent some excuse to get into the big house: "Sorry to bother you, Mr Holmes, but I've just found there's a problem with the car. I'm concerned I might lose control when I'm cruising." And then...

And then Sherlock would call him an idiot and tell him to get lost. Because they didn't have sex during cases, that was part of the arrangement.

***

Lestrade called it an arrangement still, even though it had now lasted for years. After all, he and Sherlock were both crap at relationships: any relationship between them would be crap squared, wouldn't it? And he'd never had illusions about being anything more to Sherlock than a way of staving off boredom, helping him shut down his mind when the howling inside got too bad. But so what? Better Sherlock had Lestrade to distract him than going back to the drugs. Wasn't any skin off his nose, was it? And Sherlock was surprisingly good in bed for someone who Lestrade suspected didn't really like sex. Competitive side, of course: if Sherlock did anything he had to do it well. Probably got fed up with cricket when he couldn't bowl the perfect ball. Shame, because his lean body had looked gorgeous in those whites. Maybe even if sex wasn't on the menu, he could at least call up to Sherlock on the roof, talk to him for a bit...

God, he was getting sentimental, wasn't he? Losing his touch. Moonlight and country air rotting his brain, clearly. Sherlock was climbing back into his room again – well, Lestrade hoped it was his room – so time to head back to the servants' quarters and get some kip. Possibly after a bit more fantasizing about beating Sherlock's naked arse with a stump. Or wasn't that quite cricket?

***

Lestrade decided next morning that he should do some actual detective work, talk to some of the staff, see if they had any idea who the thief might be. He wandered off to the garage – might as well start with Durham's chauffeur. The chauffeur was a small, elderly neat man, polishing an already gleaming Rolls-Royce, a look of concentration suggesting he wasn't going to stop while one molecule of dirt still clung to the car.

"How's it going?" Lestrade asked.

"She's almost there," the chauffeur replied. "Got to get her looking good before I start picking up more of the guests from the station." He looked up at Lestrade. "You're Rose, Mr Holmes' chauffeur, aren't you? 'Cept you're not really a chauffeur."

"What makes you say that?" Lestrade asked warily.

"Your shoes are a bit scuffed, and you didn't clean your Merc properly last night. You wouldn't last a week as a chauffeur. So what are you?"

"Security," he said hastily. "Mr Holmes has a lot of enemies, he wanted some protection."

"Makes sense, I suppose. I did wonder if you were a ringer."

"What?"

"For the match. If Mr Durham had sneaked a pro in to give us an edge for this one."

"Why would you think that?"

The chauffeur smiled. "Don't you know about the match?" Lestrade shook his head. "It's the annual game against the village team. Big thing round here." There was a tension in his tone now, and he'd stopped his polishing.

"Grudge match, is it?" Lestrade asked.

"We haven't won since 2005. Well, we reckoned we won that time. There was what you might call a dispute about it."

"And you want to win properly this time?"

"Mr Durham certainly does. Been practising for weeks. But you know what? If you're supposed to be protecting Mr Holmes, a bit of advice for you."

"What's that?"

"Tell him to wear a box. And a helmet. The pitch is still a bit bumpy, and Simmonds from the garage is a really good quickie. If you don't want your boss ending up in hospital, he ought to watch out for him."

***

"John's faced the Taliban and I won't be playing anyhow," Sherlock said when Lestrade found him in one of the drawing rooms. "Hugh's being difficult, so I'm going to need to do a spot of breaking and entering."

"Sherlock, it's normally better not to tell me if you're about to commit criminal acts," Lestrade said. "So what, _hypothetically_ , might you be looking for?"

"There were three men who left their rooms last night. An examination of their pyjamas will tell me if they were collecting information prior to stealing the manuscripts or simply having a sexual encounter. But when I told Hugh that he got awfully squeamish, said he couldn't let me spy on his friends like that. I did point out to him that if I could keep quiet about the fact that his marriage was a sham to conceal his own sexual preferences then I could be discreet about his guests, but he seemed unconvinced."

"Even though finding the culprit was the entire point of bringing you here in the first place. God, some people are idiots, aren't they?"

"Hugh's angling to enter parliament and one of the three is very high up in the Conservative party. Though he's the one I suspect of being an adulterer, rather than a thief."

"OK," said Lestrade. "So what's your plan?"

"There'll be almost no-one in the house while the match is on, so that's my chance to inspect the bedrooms."

"Shame we're not still in my manor," Lestrade said, "or I could organise a drugs bust. I bet there's someone taking something they shouldn't be."

"What I need you to do," Sherlock replied, "is make sure that this match lasts. I don't know how long it's going to take me to check everything and a batting collapse would not be helpful."

"See what I can do. When's the match start?"

"Two o'clock, but Hugh wants us to have a practice at eleven. He seems oddly obsessed with winning this game. If you could help him do that, it might soften the blow that one of his friends is a criminal."

"He's a would-be politician," Lestrade said. "He's gonna have to get used to that."

***

Hugh Durham was a boyish-looking 40-year-old, who obviously thought that charm compensated for incompetence. Not that Lestrade was particularly charmed: he liked his posh boys clever as well.

"We've got a splendid team this year, chaps," Durham announced as his guests gradually appeared on the pitch, still talking loudly about hedge funds and Henley, "so I really think we can give the village boys a run for their money this time. Or rather not too many runs."

"Who's on the team, Hugh?" one of the chinless wonders asked. "Hope you've put me in at number six, that's my favourite position."

"Heard it was sixty-nine," someone else sniggered, and Lestrade realised it was going to be a very long day.

"Just hold on and I'll tell you," Hugh said, fumbling in his pockets and pulling out a list. "No, hang on, that's the stall-holders for the village fete. Here we are. We've got myself, Len, Donald, William and Gilbert, Vivian, Peter Stag, Peter Delagardie, oh, and Simcox. Plus Sherlock and John, of course, who are new to the team."

"I'm not playing," Sherlock said. "Not really my sport, but Rose here is a pretty handy batsman. He should be on your team instead."

Durham gave Lestrade a cool look up and down.

"Played recently?" he asked.

"Not for a while, no, but I can still remember the basics." It wouldn't be the done thing, of course, to say: _I may be past it now, but I was a better player once than you could ever imagine being._

"Did you play at uni?" Hugh asked cheerfully.

"Didn't go to university, but I was captain of my school team."

"What school was that?"

"Blagdon Comprehensive."

"We'll put you down as twelfth man," Durham said, smiling. "Sherlock, don't try and worm your way out of this, we're relying on you to help us kick arse. So now we know who's playing, does anyone want to have a bit of a practice?"

***

Within quarter of an hour, the urge to play cricket, as opposed to standing around talking about it, was fading fast among most of Durham's players. Bunch of amateurs, thought Lestrade, and looked round for Sherlock. But he had slid off somewhere, so instead he took John off for another largely futile attempt to teach him how to block a good length ball.

"Do you want to try bowling to me?" he asked after a bit.

"I can give it a try, but I don't really know how to," John said cheerfully.

"I could have a go if you liked," said a thin, fair-haired toff, wandering over. Just about the only other bloke left on the field now, Lestrade noticed.

"I'm Peter Delagardie," the blond said, stretching out a languid hand to shake Lestrade's. "Not really a bowler, of course, but delighted to lend a fellow enthusiast a hand. It's Rose, isn't it?"

"Greg Rose," said Lestrade, smiling, "And this is John, er, Dr Watson." _Shit_ , he thought, _mustn't forget my place_.

"Ah, yes," said Delagardie, "We met last night briefly, didn't we? Nice thing about cricket, brings people together. So shall we try a few overs?"

Delagardie looked to be in his late forties, but he was still a decent player, with a neat and unshowy line in off-spin that was a bit trickier to hit than you might expect. But Lestrade was starting to get his eye in now, hadn't forgotten everything after all.

"You definitely ought to be in the team instead of me," John announced, retrieving yet another ball from the boundary. "But if we're going to have any energy left for this afternoon, I think we'd better knock it off now."

"Fair enough," Lestrade said.

"Glad we've got you on our team, Greg," Delagardie said. "And John's right, you should be playing. Technique's still all there, even if you're not so fast between the stumps now. Was it just club cricket you played or something more?"

"Didn't make it at county level," Lestrade said casually. "And that was a long time ago, anyhow."

"Yes, _anno domini_ catches up on us all, alas. But I think you'll definitely be the man to watch this afternoon," said Delagardie as he sauntered off, hands in pockets.

"Was he one of Sherlock's three suspects?" Lestrade asked John, once he was gone.

"Yes," John replied. "Though I can’t see why he'd need to go round stealing stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ve seen him in Mrs Hudson’s copies of _Hello_. I think his family owns most of Hertfordshire. He certainly didn't sound last night as if he was short of money."

"Some people never have enough money," Lestrade said. "Besides, you have to admit he was checking us out just now, wasn't he?"

"Looked like it," said John.

"And not just so he could wander round to our bedrooms this evening. You'd better let Sherlock know about him."  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is helping Sherlock investigate a string of country-house robberies. By playing in a cricket match with a load of bankers.

"It's ten to two," Hugh Durham announced, as he stood on the pitch. "Where the hell is Sherlock? And John, for that matter? I said everybody here for 1.45 pm sharp."  
   
"Here they come," Lestrade said, as two figures in white emerged from the house and came slowly towards them. The taller one, it became obvious after a while, was being propped up by his shorter companion.  
   
"Sorry about this," Sherlock said, smiling, as he limped up to Durham. "Crocked my ankle just now, can't play."  
   
"How did that happen?" Durham asked, not that sympathetically.  
   
"Fell off the billiard table trying to make a shot," Sherlock replied. "When I was playing with John."  
   
John gave the embarrassed smile of a straight man who everyone was now convinced had been shagging Sherlock senseless in the billiard room. "The ankle's probably not sprained, but I don't think Sherlock should risk any further damage. He'd be better off going back to the house and putting his foot up."  
   
"Oh, he can put it up here," Hugh said hastily. "Come and sit down beside Mr Brotherhood, Sherlock, and we'll make sure you're comfortable here. Rose, looks like you're playing after all."  
   
Not going according to Sherlock's plan, thought Lestrade, but nothing he could do at the moment. Durham was already striding off for the toss.  
   
***  
   
By the end of the village eleven's 40 overs, they'd made 167 for eight, and Lestrade knew it was just a question of how humiliatingly his team were going to lose. It hadn't helped that Durham had the man-management skills of Geoff Boycott, and that no-one had explained to some of their bowlers the concept of a good length. But it went deeper than that. The Durham Invitation XI were a bunch of middle-aged men who sat at desks for sixty hours a week, and they were up against a team of bloody-minded and horny-handed sons of toil. The class warrior deep within Lestrade felt _delighted_. And he'd taken one decent catch as well, a swirler at deep extra cover.  
   
But as he headed back to the pavilion for tea, he saw that Sherlock was still there, stuck between some old buffer and Durham's wife Anne, and practically gibbering from frustration.  
   
"Remarkably fine catch," said the old bloke, hopping up nimbly to shake Lestrade's hand. "I'm Brotherhood, by the way. It's Rose, isn't it?"  
   
"Greg Rose."  
   
"Two fine cricketing names. Did you ever see Greg Chappell play? I remember the first time I ever saw him, at the WACA in Perth in '74/'75. Made a half-century, I think, and Doug Walters got a ton. They slaughtered us on the second day and we never got back in the match."  
   
He was the kind of spectator who could quote statistics for hours. No wonder Sherlock was going spare, Lestrade thought. Better give him a chance to escape.  
   
"Are you OK, Sherlock?" he asked.  
   
"I need, um, I need the toilet," Sherlock announced, "Stomach playing up." Anne Durham looked alarmed as Sherlock limped off hurriedly. Perhaps she was worrying that she'd served dodgy mayonnaise. Mr Brotherhood just smiled at the prospect of a new conversational target for sixty years of cricketing reminiscences and turned back to Lestrade.  
   
***  
   
Even though Lestrade was playing at number six, he didn't have too long after tea to hear Mr Brotherhood expound on the glories of the three different Cowdreys he'd watched. In a horrendously short time, the villager's demon bowler had reduced them to 27 for four, and he was going out to join Durham at the crease.  
   
"I think a bit of consolidation's called for," Durham announced, "so let's take it steady till we've seen Simmonds off."  
   
That suited Lestrade. He didn't know how long it took Sherlock to break into three people's bedrooms – he didn't want to know – but being bowled out in 15 overs was not going to help. And Durham wasn't actually a bad bat, if prone to hog the strike. They got safely, if rather slowly, up to 60 for four, and Simmonds, who had got increasingly erratic, was taken off.  
   
"We need to pick up the pace now, Rose," Durham said. "But don't try slogging, it's safer if we get them in ones and twos."  
   
Easier said than done, thought Lestrade. The villagers' fielding was pretty sloppy, but neither Durham nor he were kids any more, and twenty-five years of smoking hadn't done his lungs any good. Still, the bowling was quite easy to pick off. They could make a decent stab at this, at least.  
   
Then Durham flicked a ball to the leg side. "Yes," he called, and Lestrade set off for the run. But suddenly, Durham yelled: "Wait, no, sorry", and he was scuttling back to his crease, while Lestrade, stranded mid-pitch, tried to go into reverse, only to have the ball whizz pass him and the bowler flick off the bails.  
   
"Howzat!" went up from the whole village team, and as he walked back to the pavilion Hugh Durham gave him a cheerily apologetic "Sorry, Rose!" that nearly had Lestrade showing him what else you could do with a stump. Instead, he stalked back to the pavilion and met John, grinning slightly nervously, coming out to bat.  
   
Why was John going in at seven? Oh, he and Delagardie must have swapped. Probably made sense that John should be sacrificed to Durham's inability to judge a run, rather than anyone who could actually bat. They were up to 78 for five off 23 overs, and if John made it to double figures Lestrade would be surprised.  
   
He switched on his phone, but there was nothing from Sherlock. Nothing he could do about that; all he could do was sit and watch the match, accompanied by Mr Brotherhood's rather acidic commentary.  
   
"What do they teach them at school nowadays?" Brotherhood demanded, as John played another agricultural shot.  
   
"I don't think your doctor friend's doing too badly under the circumstances, really," Delagardie said, looking across at Lestrade, smiling. "I mean he can't bat, but he's game."  
   
"John, Dr Watson's ex-army," Lestrade said. "Good man to have with you in a tight spot."  
   
"Well we've certainly got that," Brotherhood announced. "The village have got their quickie, Simmonds, I think he is, back on. Wonder what Durham's tactic will be now?"  
   
Durham's tactic, it turned out, was attempting to hit out at the other end and getting caught at cover. 110 for six in the 30th over, and their chances were getting ever slimmer. Still, they might well last the full 40 overs, because Delagardie was obviously a decent, if uninspired player.  He blocked Simmonds' first couple of balls soundly; if he could at least do a Boycott for a while yet, it'd give Sherlock time to finish his investigations. The pitch was getting bumpy by now and Simmonds' third delivery rose wickedly from a patch of bare earth and hit Delagardie violently on the elbow.  Lestrade winced in sympathy.  
   
Another bumper followed, and Delagardie, opening up wrathful shoulders, strode out of the crease and whacked it for four. The next he clouted to leg for two, nearly braining square leg. Simmonds, unnerved, sent down a ridiculously wide wide. Delagardie smiled and then snicked the last ball of the over to leg for a single to keep the strike. 118 for six.  
   
 _My god, he's good_ , thought Lestrade; fifty more off ten overs might just be possible. He wondered whether it was the bump on his elbow that had made Delagardie start channelling Keven Pietersen. Or maybe even Ian Bell. This wasn't just power, this was the kind of skill that had taken hours of practice, all now brought to bear on the controlled demolition of the villagers' pretensions at cricket.  
   
"Oh well played," Brotherhood announced as Delagardie cut another ball neatly between two fielders. "Hugh, why didn't you send what's-his-name in higher than number eight? He and Rose are the only cricketers among the whole damn lot of you."  
   
Lestrade's phone started to vibrate and he strode away rapidly to check the text in private:  
   
 _Delagardie's our man. I've found diagrams of the security system wiring for this house and half a dozen others. Arrest him. SH_  
   
He texted back rapidly: _Will do. GL_ and then carefully sat back down. He hadn't said _when_ he was going to arrest Delagardie, and it'd probably provoke a riot if he did so right now. Because the score was mounting, and the target was still reachable, and Simmonds was being taken off.  
   
And then John, the silly prat, got himself LBW to the spinner, and the next man in was immediately out, idiotically trying to slog his first ball. 142 for eight, and Delagardie had four overs and two wickets left to get 26 runs, on a deteriorating pitch. He got thirteen off the first over, surrounded by close fielders and driving everything drivable straight down the pitch. A couple of fours from the next, but he didn't manage to keep the strike, and Gilbert, the number ten, only lasted two balls. 163 for nine, five runs needed and ten balls left.  
   
Simcox – Durham's butler – was in now, looking like a man whose playing days should have been firmly ended about 1985. But at least he managed to block his first two balls. He tried to block the third one and it somehow went up vertically in the air. For a moment that seemed like hours, Lestrade and the other spectators saw the spinning ball – first slip's outstretched hand – then it dropped, missed by a hair.  
   
"I'm going to scream," Anne Durham announced. Simcox was wiping his forehead. The bowler looked unnerved as well and the last delivery of the over went down short and rather wide.  
   
"Leave it alone!" Brotherhood shrieked. "Leave it alone, you numbskull!"  
   
Simcox made a wild swipe, missed completely and almost stepped on his wicket trying to get back into his crease.  
   
"Howzat!" yelled the keeper, sweeping the bails off with demented optimism.  
   
"Not out!"  
   
"The nincompoop! The fat-headed thick-witted booby!" yelled Mr Brotherhood, dancing with fury. "Might have thrown the match away. That man's a fool. A fool, I tell you."  
   
That had been a maiden, so one over left, still five runs to get and Delagardie with the strike. They'd do it yet, thought Lestrade. The first ball came skimming down towards the batsman and he whacked it. It soared away splendidly, struck the pavilion roof with a noise like a crack of thunder, rattled down its galvanised iron sheets, and broke a beer bottle. Delagardie 49 not out and the match was won.  
   
***  
   
Delagardie lolloped back to the pavilion to be met by Lestrade, and – showing a remarkable turn of speed – Mr Brotherhood.  
   
"Beautifully played sir, beautifully played," Brotherhood announced. "But didn't I see you play for Oxford in 1985?"  
   
Delagardie shook his head.  
   
"Peter Delagardie –" Lestrade announced, reaching for his handcuffs, and then abruptly realising he didn't have them on him.  
   
"Delagardie?" said Brotherhood, in puzzlement, "I don't recognise the name. But you have a late cut that’s extremely characteristic. I’m sure I saw you play at Lord's in 1985, when you made 112."  
   
"Peter Delagardie," Lestrade repeated more determinedly, "I arrest you on suspicion of theft. You do not have to say anything –"  
   
"But I thought the name was Bredon," Brotherhood interjected. "De’ath Bredon of Balliol –"  
   
"I prefer it pronounced Death," Delagardie said, and then abruptly played a rather fine pull shot that sent his bat crashing agonisingly into Lestrade’s stomach. As he doubled up, swearing, Delagardie dropped the bat and ran off. Let him get to the cars and he might yet escape, thought Lestrade, and tried to make his protesting body move forward.  
   
"Stop him!" he croaked, but everybody just stood around stupefied, and, fuck it, Delagardie might just get away. And then the fleeing man crashed to the ground, as a ball hit him smack behind the knee. Several of the players had finally caught on, and were charging up to Delagardie, grabbing him, hauling him back towards Lestrade. He looked round, to see who the hell had managed that throw, and saw a small, rumpled figure in whites looking particularly innocuous.  
   
"Said I couldn’t bat," John said cheerily. "Never said I couldn’t field."  
   
***  
   
It was another lovely night and Lestrade was still feeling pissed off, as he stood outside the house and tried to make himself appreciate the stars and nature, and that kind of crap. Wished he'd been able to bugger off as soon as Delagardie had been caught. But, of course, Hugh Durham knew the Chief Constable of Wiltshire, so Lestrade had to hang around till he turned up, along with a super from the local CID. The super had been almost as pissed off as Lestrade, because he'd thought this was the start of a turf-war with the Met, and it taken Lestrade a long time to smooth him over. By the time he'd done that, Sherlock and John had long since gone off to the pub for the post-match celebrations, and it hadn't seemed worth trying to get back to London on his own. Nothing much to get back to, anyhow.  
   
Sod it, why the fuck should he be gloomy? He'd caught a villain, and they'd won the match. But his muscles ached from his earlier exertions, and the Durham Invitation XI were just a load of fraudsters and wankers. And just being here, breathing in the smug country air – too much scent of lilac and not enough of hot pavements – left him edgy. Well that, and not having a cigarette to smoke.  
   
"OK for bloody Sherlock," he found himself muttering.  
   
"I see you're calling to me," said a deep voice behind him. Behind him and above him. What the fuck? Lestrade slewed round and looked up and there he was. The pale form of Sherlock standing on the roof above him. He'd ended up standing near the same spot as last night, beneath Sherlock's bedroom, and didn't his subconscious have some explaining to do about that?  
   
And now Sherlock was climbing down, no, sliding down a ladder that had been left conveniently propped up against his window.  
   
"Why's that there?" asked Lestrade, when Sherlock's feet touched the ground, wincing slightly from whatever he'd really done to his ankle. "Invitation to a burglar, that is."  
   
"One of Durham's staff was supposed to be going up on the roof to clean the gutters," Sherlock said. "But he's probably buggered off to find a girl instead. They're a careless lot."  
   
"I thought you were down at the pub," Lestrade said.  
   
"I've had enough of that," Sherlock said. "John's still there, explaining the rules of cricket. Very tedious."  
   
"John doesn't know the bloody rules of cricket. Oh," he added, as it dawned on him. "Is she blonde?"  
   
"And Lithuanian. I don't think it matters if John's hazy on the finer points of the LBW law."  
   
"No, he's probably more interested in getting his leg over. I know, it's an obvious one. But I'm tired, and fed up."  
   
"And I'm bored, and you're fractionally less tedious than Durham's friends," Sherlock said. "It turns out Bredon is a cousin of Delagardie. The black sheep of the family, but regularly used by Delagardie as a stand-in for the more tedious engagements of his social calendar. The family's so in-bred nobody spotted the difference, but then Bredon must have decided that he wanted to make rather more from his opportunity to mingle with the rich and clueless." He paused, and then added abruptly:  
   
"You know the prize bit of idiocy? Hugh's pals couldn't decide whether to admire Bredon's audacity, or be annoyed that he'd let the side down. Then one of the villagers tried to claim that the match result shouldn't stand and they just laughed at him. God, there's nothing more depressing than a bunch of money-grabbing Englishmen yammering about fair play."  
   
There was an edge to his voice that was worryingly familiar to Lestrade. The case had been solved too easily, Sherlock had missed out on chasing Delagardie, and John wasn't around to fulfil his normal role as Sherlock's minder. All adding up to the dangerous state in which Sherlock got stupidly reckless. He needed some distraction, before his attention turned to drugs or guns or jumping from tall buildings. Because the thing was that Sherlock might not like cricket but he loved _games_. Mainly because there were extra rules to break. Time for Lestrade to encourage him to break a few more, perhaps, make use of one of the few advantages that he had over Sherlock. Sherlock might know everything about crime and criminals, but Lestrade knew more about the law.  
   
"So what do you reckon the villagers should do?" he asked casually. "Just sit back and take it? Probably all they're up to really, these yokels."  
   
"What they should do," Sherlock said, with a sneer, "is burn down Durham's pavilion, that'd show him. No, actually, burn down Pendersleigh, except it's probably too damp to burn."  
   
 _Gotcha_ , thought Lestrade, and said, grinning:  "Sherlock Holmes, I am arresting you under Section 1 of the Terrorism Act 2006, for the offence of the encouragement of terrorism." He still didn't have any handcuffs on him, so he simply twisted Sherlock's left arm lightly behind his back. Barely painful, and an easy hold to break, but Sherlock was already too preoccupied to struggle.  
   
"How...you can't arrest me for that!" he yelled, caught between fury and hilarity.  
   
"Yes I can," said Lestrade. "You have published a statement that is likely to be understood by some member of the public – me – as a direct encouragement to the commission, preparation or instigation of an act of terrorism. Got you bang to rights this time, Sherlock."  
   
"An act of terrorism?" Sherlock was starting to laugh now.  
   
"As defined in Section 1 of the Terrorism Act 2000," Lestrade replied triumphantly. "An action which involves serious damage to property – burning a house down definitely counts – designed to intimidate a section of the public – Durham and his pals – and made for the purpose of advancing a political, religious or ideological cause."  
   
"I was thinking more that it would be enjoyable to watch Durham have his house burned down," Sherlock said. "Not strictly an ideological cause."  
   
"Fair enough. In that case, you may not be a terrorist, but I still have reasonable grounds for suspecting that you may be in possession of a stolen article, the reasonable grounds being that you told me earlier you were planning to break into someone's bedroom. Therefore I am entitled to search you under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, Section 1."  
   
There was a look on Sherlock's face now that said he was just bored enough to go along with Lestrade's game.  
   
"I thought you weren't allowed to search me if I was on someone else's property with their permission," he said, casually.  
   
"True, but you do not have express or implied permission to enter the stable block, where I am currently residing. So if I were to find you there, I would be justified in searching you."  
   
"Better search me carefully, if I end up in your bedroom," said Sherlock, smirking, "there was a Saudi terrorist a few years ago who hid a bomb in his rectum."  
   
It was working, thank God. "I'm making the jokes round here, sunshine," Lestrade retorted. "So let's go somewhere quiet and then I can give you a thorough examination."  
   
He started to push Sherlock gently towards the stable block, and then added, "Oh, and I'll also explain to you, you ignoramus, the real difference between tennis and cricket."  
   
"What's that?" asked Sherlock, twisting to stare at Lestrade over his shoulder.  
   
"Easy," said Lestrade, as his hands dropped from Sherlock's wrist, and moved down his body. "Tennis starts with love. With cricket, though, if you want to score, you have to remember to keep your eye on the balls."  



End file.
